The Gun Runner's Daughter

by Neil Gordon

  Dee rounded the desk and sat, feeling Edelson’s hot breath on his ear, but he did not listen to what his fellow attorney was whispering. Nor did he pay attention to Bob Stein’s slightly longer introductory remarks.

  What he listened to was in his ear only, and it was Allison’s low voice, expressionlessly emerging from the kitchen.

  What he saw was her slim form, leaning cross-armed against the kitchen table, her face expressionless as she calmly delivered the verdict of a struggle he had not ever even suspected.

  And what he felt, slowly mounting in his breast, was rage: a pure, clean rage that he had not felt since he was a child.

  Rage at this process of compromise; rage at his ill use by his father and his cronies.

  Rage at the way he had once again, through the years and years of his life, been so surely, so inescapably, cornered.

  5.

  Looking at him revealed nothing: to Alley, watching his quarter profile from an angle slightly behind him, the drama taking place in Dee was entirely hidden. He sat collected, calm, gazing at Bob speaking, then looking away at the floor in front of his table. Her hands, she suddenly found, were clenched in her lap, and her attention was entirely concentrated on one word: Please. Please.

  Stein concluded, Levi was sworn in, and the room paused. For a terrified moment, Allison thought that Dee was not going to remove his fixed gaze from the floor. And indeed he did not, speaking without looking up into the silent room.

  “Good morning, Mr. Levi. I’d like to start with a very general question. I’d like to ask you why Mr. Rosenthal undertook to sell military supplies to one side of the civil war in the former Yugoslavia.”

  He continued to watch the floor while Levi answered, carefully rehearsed in just this introduction to his testimony. And only when Levi had finished did Dee rise, moving slowly around the table, then stopping midstage to look up at the witness.

  “Now, in his opening remarks for the defense, Mr. Stein announced his intention to prove that Ronald Rosenthal was following a governmental directive in undertaking this sale. He pointed out that President Clinton himself supported the Bosnian Muslims, and claimed that Mr. Rosenthal acted—in effect patriotically—in accordance with the president’s wishes. Is it true that Mr. Rosenthal, in his business dealings, only acts in accordance with American governmental directives?”

  “Objection.” Stein, sounding a bit surprised.

  “Sustained.”

  “I’ll rephrase. Mr. Levi, are you aware of any endeavor by Mr. Rosenthal that acted against U.S. interests?”

  A long pause. “No.”

  “Really? That seems so surprising. I mean, there are, after all, points in the diplomatic relationship between the U.S. and Israel where the two friends have disagreed, are there not?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Well, what about the Lavi affair?”

  “Falcon had no position in that, Mr. Dennis.”

  “No. But it’s nonetheless an example, is it not? Or Gerald Bull. Have you ever heard that Israel was responsible for his death?”

  “Those are only rumors.”

  “I agree. Now, Mr. Levi, Falcon Corporation supplied the joint committee on Iran-contra, per the Israeli prime minister’s order, with a chronology of events relating to sales to Iran. And in that chronology, it specified that Mr. Rosenthal was in Chile in 1985. That was important, sir, if you remember, in that it cleared him of participation in a certain meeting with Mr. Ghorbanifar. Mr. Levi, could you confirm for us that Mr. Rosenthal traveled to Chile in 1985?”

  A stirring behind him: Edelson trying to attract his attention. While Levi hesitated, Dee kept his back turned on his partners.

  “Well, I’ll have to check my records. I’m not sure of the exact date.”

  “But Mr. Rosenthal did travel to Chile around that time, Mr. Levi?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Levi. What was the purpose of that trip?”

  Confused, Levi hesitated. “It had nothing to do with this trial.”

  “Please answer the question, sir.”

  Stein was on his feet now. “Objection, your honor. This line of questioning has absolutely no relevance.”

  Dee answered without hesitation. “Your honor, if you’ll allow me, the defense has stated that Mr. Rosenthal’s activities are uniformly guided by U.S. interests. In 1985 the U.S. had interests in Chile, ones that were directly relevant to U.S. v. Teledyne. I believe it relevant to explore how Mr. Rosenthal acted within those interests.”

  The judge answered, tonelessly, to Levi: “You may answer the question, Mr. Levi.”

  Pause. Then Levi answered. “Well, sir, it was a diplomatic mission for the government of Mr. Shamir.”

  “Was it really? A mission to whom?”

  Levi hesitated visibly, as if making a decision. But Alley’s prediction held true.

  “To a defense manufacturer down there. Industrias Cardoen.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Levi. If I remember correctly, Mr. Cardoen was supplying weapons to Iraq. Cluster bombs.”

  Levi spoke more freely now, as if on surer ground. “Yes. Mr. Rosenthal was sent to stop that sale. The government of Israel feared coming under attack from those armaments.”

  “Thank you. Were other firms in the United States also supplying Iraq?”

  “Yes. Mostly with high-tech components of their nuclear program.”

  “Thank you. And in western Europe?”

  “Everyone. Saddam was acquiring the technology to produce chemical warheads, and nuclear warheads, and ballistic missiles capable of delivering them. Everyone was selling to him, everyone. Israel was forced to act unilaterally to knock out the nuclear program, but the chemical went full speed ahead. Saddam dropped gas at Halabja, Siwsinan, Balakajar, and more. All Kurdish villages. Only Israel opposed the arming of Iraq. The whole world was making money off technology that was gassing Kurds and could gas Israeli towns.”

  “Thank you. Are you aware that Cardoen was indicted in federal court two years ago for those sales? And that when he was indicted, he offered convincing documentary proof that a branch of the United States government was permitting—even encouraging—those sales?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Mr. Rosenthal was not successful in interdicting Mr. Cardoen’s sales?”

  “No sir. Cardoen claimed CIA support. There was a limit to how far we could go.”

  “Thank you. Now, Mr. Levi, let me ask you this. Was Mr. Rosenthal following an American governmental policy in this endeavor?”

  Stein was up again, entering an objection in a loud voice, and with restrained fury, Dee addressed the judge.

  “Your honor, it is a matter of public record that from the mid-eighties until the Gulf War a presidentially blessed program of covert arms sales to Iraq was in effect. The witness has just told us that Ronald Rosenthal, representing the Israeli government, made every effort to interdict this flow of arms, as a direct representative of the Israeli prime minister. Your honor, this establishes a clear precedent of Rosenthal’s willingness to act on the international arms market not only independently of U.S. government directives, but in direct contradiction of them.”

  “Answer the question, Mr. Levi.”

  “No.”

  “No what, Mr. Levi?”

  “No, Mr. Rosenthal was not following an American governmental directive, certainly not. He was acting to save Israel. We all were.”

  “Was Mr. Rosenthal acting against a U.S. government program?”

  “Yes, he was acting against one.”

  And, in the long moment before the judge could call the court again to order, in perfect unison both the prosecution and defense teams’ jaws dropped.

  While, in Allison Rosenthal’s stomach, deep in her stomach, joy was born.

  6.

  At the end of the day, Allison had no intention of leaving her departure from court to chance. Directly across the street, Martha was waiting in a cab, and she swung the door
open as Allison approached. No sooner had she slammed the door closed, than the taxi had pulled out and headed across town. She watched the circus in front of the courthouse draw away into the distance, a couple of photographers chasing the cab with lenses pointed, then turned to look at her friend.

  Martha. Her black hair gathered regally behind her head, her smiling wide eyes, her full mouth bright red with lipstick. She wore a tight white T-shirt under a leather jacket, her breasts full. Her neck with its warm skin rose out of the leather jacket’s lapels with what seemed to Allison, after the shock of cold air outside the court, an inviting warmth, and for a moment she wanted to bury her face in that skin of her friend’s neck. Then, for a moment, she wanted to cry.

  Martha was speaking. “Man, what the fuck happened in there? I haven’t seen Dee Dennis look so good since he kicked Billy Poole’s ass on Menemsha Dock.”

  Allison shrugged, smiling at her friend. “Who cares?”

  “New York One reported the whole fucking day. Dee’s crucifying your old man.”

  “Don’t worry about my old man. Let’s get a drink.”

  “Oke. Leave it to me, babe.” Martha leaned forward to confer with the driver; he turned the cab west, and Martha, seeing Allison slump into her seat, a hand over her eyes, continued chatting with the driver.

  In the care of her friend, Allison felt the tension of the day flowing out of her in huge breaths. Martha, she thought, had always taken care of her, taken care of her with this rude competence. A deep feeling of gratitude flowed through her, a feeling of something like love, and she wanted to touch her. She sank into the seat, turning her head to the window, her hand over her eyes, listening to Martha, who’d switched to a slangy French, chatting idly with the driver about Haiti.

  Now, the sun through the window swimming bloodpink through her closed eyelids, she let her mind picture Dee again, dropping his bombshell in the opening moments of the trial. He had been word-perfect: composed, quiet, not attempting—as Stein did—to win over the jury, but adapting his tone to the gravity of the evidence he was presenting. His superiors, she had noted, had been shocked, more by his demeanor than by his surprise line of questions, but that shock had transmuted gradually into delight as the success of the ploy had come clear. She had wondered if he would be taken to task for the renegade move; but when the trial had reopened for the afternoon, Dee’s line of questioning reflected very powerful help from his office. That meant that someone had decided that the references to the Iraqi supply program weren’t as dangerous as they’d feared—either that, or they’d decided that the cat was out of the bag, and they had to put the best face on it. He had spent the entire afternoon establishing that Levi and Rosenthal had opposed the U.S. trade with Iraq at every point. That made it doubly impossible to argue that Rosenthal wouldn’t have acted on Bosnia without instructions. These guys, she thought, could turn on a dime.

  No, she concluded soberly, she doubted that Dee would be in trouble with his office. Not after, in the opening day of the trial, virtually assuring her father’s conviction on one of the main points under prosecution. She doubted that his employers would mind finding an effective, powerful prosecutor, where they were expecting a boy following orders: initiative surely had a high place in Ed Dennis’s hierarchy of virtues. Briefly she pictured him as she would see him later that night: his body filled with suppressed excitement, the master, again, of his fate. That was how Dee liked to be. That was how she wanted to see him.

  And, she thought, when that attitude flagged under Stein’s counter-offensive, she would give him something more. She had much more to give. Much more to share with him of the fruits of her short afternoon with the Borough Park files. Really, it was incredible: her father had been in the lap of Israeli and American covert arms transfers for, what, a quarter century? She could turn that whole dark world underside up to the light, and take Dee through it like a tour-bus guide. She could show him things that secretaries of state were not able to see, things that perhaps even presidents didn’t know. Yes, she had much more to share with Dee Dennis.

  He had no idea how much.

  7.

  The night was turning very cold, the invasive cold of a New York autumn, a wind from the river carrying the metallic feel of winter. The street was half deserted on a Monday night, and those who were out in it were, Nicky noticed, far younger than he. That intensified, somehow, his feeling of isolation.

  He had not been down to this neighborhood—the West Village—in many years, and was not quite sure of his directions in the narrow, winding streets. Guessing which was west, Nicky followed a street through darkness, shivering in his jacket. The street curved into an intersection with a wider street, and as he approached, a red neon sign came into view. The Corner Bistro.

  The bar was fairly crowded, but still some seats were empty. No one was playing the jukebox. Taking a seat and ordering a drink, he tried to dispel the feeling of discomfort that weighed in his stomach, sipping his bourbon, staring at his own face in the mirror behind the cash register.

  Partly, he knew, it came from having done too much too soon. Now, having slept a feverish sleep the entire day, he admitted to himself that he was not strong enough, nor well enough, for this trip. He should not be here, he knew, and if he were here he should not be smoking, or drinking. Still, that was not the worst of it.

  The worst of how he felt, he had to admit to himself, came from not liking what he was about to do. Perhaps the feeling of dread that oppressed him was intensified by feeling sick, but even healthy, he would not like it. Threatening Allison Rosenthal with jail was just not the kind of thing he had anticipated when he had decided to go work for the NAR.

  Most people thought of his commitment to Jay Cohen’s left-wing rag as an idealistic sacrifice of income, but money had never been the issue: his father had been a successful screenwriter for nearly five decades, and Nicky, who was again living in his childhood house in Malibu and driving his father’s 1956 Mustang, had never had to work a day in his life. Rather, the NAR had offered a protection from the kind of compromises a mainstream job would have entailed. It offered the chance to pursue precisely what he wanted, without having to justify it to an editor’s sense of the topical or to tailor it to an owner’s politics.

  As for the danger, Nicky’s fiancée had said, just before she left him, that Nicky no longer knew what he was after: data or danger. That line had popped into his mind years later as a chartered plane circled over Eritrea looking for a place to land near a firefight. It made him admit, for the first time, that the singing of the blood in his ears, the little bursts of nearly sexual excitement in his belly, the superawareness of his every sense, was not fear but joy, and that his fiancée, in many ways, had been right.

  What he was planning to do tonight was, however, worse than danger and worse than any of the compromises a reporting job may have required and, as he anticipated it, Nicky could not help wondering what had brought him here. His fiancée had thought that his politics, his idealism, were just an excuse for adventure. What would she say now? And dimly, without fully articulating it, Nicky knew what she would say: that if Nicky were only looking to use Allison to get to Eastbrook, he would have done it through lawyers.

  He shook his gaze free from the mirror and turned on his stool, letting his eye travel down the bar. When it reached the end, he found himself looking at a familiar face. Their eyes met, and he looked away. Then he looked back, to find the man still watching him with an expression of shock. It was, he realized, the prosecutor from the Rosenthal trial. David Treat Dennis.

  He turned, hoping that he had not shown his recognition, but all the while his thoughts swirled. Was he imagining this? He turned for another quick look, and found Dennis staring at him with an expression of equal astonishment. Of course, he thought dimly, this guy thought he was dead.

  And before he had time to absorb this information or, rather, to disregard it, for there was nothing he could do with it, it seemed to act in conspirac
y with the heat of the bar and the bourbon he was drinking to cause a swoon of dizziness to pass through him. In its wake, the skin of his face felt both cold and moist with sweat. And as he tried to collect himself, the door swung open into the night and Allison Rosenthal, still in her clothes from the day in court, entered the bar.

  Had she already remarked Dennis’s presence? Nicky thought so, but he was no longer sure of anything. She saw him immediately, and stopped dead still. Then she crossed the room and stood, wordless, before him.

  Her face, he saw, was flushed from the cold, her breath coming quickly, as if she had been hurrying. Nicky, unable to speak, watched her openly and wonderingly, his eyes traveling from the blond hair tied up in a knot, to her eyes, green and alive, to her cheeks, red, to her mouth, slightly open and showing her tongue between her teeth as she caught her breath. Her overcoat—black cashmere—was open, her charcoal-suited body underneath like a warm, plumed bird.

  He returned his eyes to her face, and started to speak, then stopped. He licked his lips and turned away for a moment, not feeling master of himself. Then he said, with great difficulty: “That guy, David Dennis. Your father’s prosecutor. He’s at the bar.”

  She nodded. “Forget him. Are you okay?”

  He answered without thinking. “I don’t know. I think I’m going to pass out.” Having said that, he returned his eyes to her inspection, as if awaiting a command.

  And indeed, after a short inspection of his eyes, a short, piercing look, Allison did in fact issue an order.

  “We have to get you upstairs. I can’t have you fainting here. Quickly now.”

  And powerless to stop her, Nicky let this woman put her arm around his waist and, half supporting him, take him out of the bar.

  CHAPTER 13

  October 24 and 25, 1994.

  New York City.